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Then fast the mother's tears did seek
To dew the infant's kindling cheek.

X. All loose her negligent attire,

All loose her golden hair, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire,

And wept in wild despair.
But not alone the bitter tear

Had filial grief supplied;
For hopeless love, and anxious fear,

Had lent their mingled tide:
Nor in her mother's altered eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.

Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,
With Car in arms had stood,

When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran,
All purple with their blood;

And well she knew, her mother dread,

Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,

Would see her on her dying bed.


Of noble race the Ladye came;Her father was a clerk of fame,

Of Bethune's line of Picardie: He learned the art, that none may name,

In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said, he changed his mortal frame

By feat of magic mystery;
For when, in studious mood, he paced

St Andrew's cloistered hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced Upon the sunny wall!


And of his skill, as bards avow,

He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow

The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,

And listens to a heavy sound,

That moans the mossy turrets round.

Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,

That chafes against the scaur's * red side?

Is it the wind, that swings the oaks?Is it the echo from the rocks fWhat may it be, the heavy sound, That moans old Branksome's turrets round?


At the sullen, moaning sound,

The ban-dogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,

Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall, both squire and knight

Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night;

But the night was still and clear!

* Scaur, a precipitous bank of earth.


From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the wind-swung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,

The Ladye knew it well!
It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,

And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.

XV. Stiber Spirit. "Sleep'st thou, brother!"

fountain Spirit,

—" Brother, nay—
On my hills the moon-beams play.
From Craik-cross to Skelfhillpen,
By every rill, in every glen, Merry elves their morrice pacing,

To aerial minstrelsy,
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,
Trip it deft and merrily.

Up, and mark their nimble feet!
Up, and list their music sweet!"

IS iter Spirit.
"Tears of an imprisoned maiden Mix with my polluted stream;
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden,

Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.
Tell me, thou, who viewest the stars,
When shall cease these feudal jars?
What shall be the maiden's fate?
Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

XVII. fountain Spirit. "Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, In utter darkness round the pole; The Northern Bear lowers black and grim; Orion's studded belt is dim;

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